


Clintasha Week 2018

by zombie_socks



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Clintasha Week, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-15 05:58:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15406536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombie_socks/pseuds/zombie_socks
Summary: Fulfilled prompts from Tumblr for Clintasha Week





	1. AUs

**Author's Note:**

> Fluffy (and a little sexy) modern AU to start things off...

Clint hated laundry day. It took forever and the laundry center in his building was plagued by miscreants who would take unfinished wet clothes out of the washer and steal socks - Seriously, who steals socks? - meaning he couldn't leave his underthings tumbling unattended. So he'd bought extra underwear and socks and made it so laundry day came once a month. And he stood by it being the worst Saturday of the common four-per-lunar-cycle. 

He was slumped on the ground, watching cute animal vids on his phone, babysitting a load of colors in the washer and towels in the dryer, when she came in. Red hair pulled back into a messy bun, little black shorts, a forest green tank that showed off all her curves, pale skin covering dancer's legs and strong arms. God, she was gorgeous. 

Clint tried not to stare but she caught him, his eyes snapping back to his phone instantly as if he wasn't being obvious. 

She set her basket down and began loading a washer. Clint tried to concentrate on the puppy begging an old grumpy cat to play, but found his gaze straying back to the stunning woman currently measuring detergent. He saw the label on the bottle that read "sensitive skin" and hated the line of fantasies that sprung from it. Jesus, he was lonely. It'd been almost a year since his fling with Jess and almost four since his divorce from Bobbi. 

"Got a dollar?" a husky, yet abundantly feminine voice asked from above him. 

Clint looked up to find the redhead twirling her laundry card, inquiry on her face.

"Uh, yeah,” he replied after a moment. “Hold on." He leaned over, taking his wallet out of his back pocket, and removed the only cash he had left. Laundry day ran about $12 so he always took out $20 from an ATM and bought lunch to break the bill. Plus fries made a great snack to wade through while he waited.

"Thanks," she responded simply. She went over to the machine to load the extra dollar onto her card. It spit it back out, causing her to frown and attempt it again but to no avail. 

"Try running it over the side of the machine a few times, straighten it out," Clint offered. 

She did as suggested and tried it again, this time successfully. 

"What are you, the phantom of the laundry room?" she snarked, taking her card and going back to her washer. She hit some buttons, put in her card, and started the machine. It clunked a few times but eventually got spinning. 

"Something like that," Clint answered. "I take socks as sacrifices to keep the laundry center afloat." 

"So that's what happened to my last load."

Clint stood up, stretching his legs a bit. "Actually sock theft is pretty serious around here. I'd recommend sticking close and babysitting your laundry."

"Is that what you're doing? "

He nodded. "Or, you know, if you're busy, I can watch your stuff. " 

She raised a brow. Wow, that look had probably slain men. 

"Sorry. That probably sounded creepy." He sank back down, snatching his melting milkshake and poked at the dregs of ice cream and cookie dough.

The woman sighed deeply and, much to Clint’s surprise, slid down the wall to sit next to him. “Not as much as you might think.”

“Oh yeah?” He chewed on the straw, giving his brain something to focus on other than  _oh my god, she’s sitting right next to me_.  _Red alert! Red Alert!_

She hummed, a noncommittal sound that felt loaded with things unsaid. She grew quiet, spinning her laundry card around in her hands again.

“Want some fries?” Clint offered, unsure of what to do next.

She looked over at him, brows tied up in confusion.

He slid the greasy paper bag her way and warned, “They’re probably cold by now.”

She stared at the bag but didn’t make a move for it. “Thanks,” she mumbled instead, “for the dollar.”

He waved her off. “This laundry room phantom’s gotta lure ‘em in somehow. Shit. Now  _that_  was creepy.”

She huffed a laugh and, with a little hesitancy, began, “So what do you do when you’re not haunting the washers?”

“Haunt the dryers.”

She rolled her eyes but her lips quirked ever so slightly into a smile.  _Shit, am I flirting with her?_

“Nah, I’m an iron worker for the city. Do a lot of boat repair down at the docks.”

“Sounds like ‘riveting’ work.”

He barked a laugh at the pun. He also couldn’t help but notice how pleased with herself she seemed. He made a note to see if he could get her to smile more. It was a good look on her. “Mostly spot welding. I’m Clint, by the way.” He stuck out his hand and hoped the introduction wasn’t too sudden. But there was no way he was going to leave this meeting without getting her name.

“Natasha,” she replied taking his hand for a shake.

“Pretty name,” he commented, digging some of the fries from the bag and popping them into his mouth. They were cold. Damn.

“Thanks. I picked it out myself.”

“Parents forget to do that part?”

She shook her head, going a little more somber than he’d wanted. “I chose it when I moved here.”

“Oh.” He wasn’t sure what else to say so he changed the subject. “What do you do when you’re not offering sacrificial socks to the phantom?”

“I’m a translator for Maria Stark Community Hospital.” She pointed to the bag, brow raised in question. He nodded, sliding it closer. She took a handful but ate the limp, cold fries one at a time.

“Translator huh? That must be pretty cool.”

She shrugged. “It’s mostly telling old, scared people why they’re being poked and prodded with needles.” She popped a fry in her mouth, chewed it slowly. “The worst is having to deliver bad news like that they have cancer or their loved one’s surgery was unsuccessful.”

“Oh, that’s… uh, that must be tough.” Clint poked at his milkshake again, trying not to think about what he’d do if he had such a weighty responsibility. Fixing leaky boats was pretty tame by comparison.

“Sorry,” Natasha mumbled. “I really killed the mood.”

“There was a mood? That is, I mean… uh…” The timer for his load of colors sounded. He got up to put them in the dryer next to his load of towels. He was going to have to buy some new flannels before fall hit – his were starting to look a little threadbare.

“So, um, you said Maria Stark Community, right? Is that over in Queens?” He turned away from the dryer to see he was alone. The redheaded beauty had vanished. He felt his heart sink as he settled back down with his nearly empty bag of fries and almost finished milkshake. Picking up his phone, intent on returning to his cute animal videos, he noticed his messenger app had been left open.

_Sorry to bail but it’s been a tough week. Some shit happened._

_You seem like a nice guy. Maybe I’ll see you around._

And that was all she’d written.

_Well shit,_  Clint thought.  _Figures she’d be the ‘one that got away.’_

 

Clint fished out his laundry center access card from his pocket, precariously balancing his basket of dirty laundry on his hip, pizza box on top, ready for another Saturday of cold tile floors and useless pining. It’d been three months since he’d seen Natasha. His friend, Kate, said she was starting to think he’d made her up. If he was being honest, Clint was starting to think that too.

He set the pizza on one of the folding stations and loaded his laundry card with the money leftover from ordering lunch. Throwing two loads of clothes in two of the washers, he started up the machines and took his position on the floor, back against the wall. There was a new video podcast Kate had been bugging him to watch, so he put in his headphones and hit play on episode one of Red, White, and Viewed – a creative look at visual art across America. The host, Steve something, was interviewing some vets about art therapy, when it happened.

She opened the laundry center door, same black shorts and green tank top, although now with an added black sweater since it was autumn. Her hair was longer or maybe it just looked that way since it was down loose around her shoulders.

“Oh, hi,” she greeted awkwardly.

Clint gave a slight wave but had no idea what to do after that. Because, A, their first meeting had been weird, B, he hadn’t seen her for months, and C, she was still just as beautiful and it was making his mind fuzzy.

She put her clothes in the washer and started it without saying a word. Clint took the hint and went back to the video, not that he was particularly interested anymore, sorry, Sargent Barnes and host Steve. 

“Uh, so hey,” she started, coming over after a minute and settling down against the wall next to him, “last time I was kind of going through some stuff. There was this grandmother and her granddaughter that I was translating for at the hospital and things weren’t good between them, and it reminded me of my own  _babushka,_ how mean and cold she was; how when she passed I was sent to America and was alone and…” she sighed. “So, yeah, it…yeah.” She leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. “Sorry.”

Clint slowly wrapped the cord for his earbuds around his phone and set it beside him. He picked up the pizza box and offered it to her. “Want a slice?”

She opened her eyes and smiled softly, graciously accepting a lukewarm piece of pepperoni.

“I get it,” he began gently. “Can’t say my family would’ve won any awards.” He picked at some of the melted cheese stuck to the inside of the pizza box. “You know, if you want to rant or something, I just put in a load of whites. You’ve got at least forty minutes.”

She scoffed and took another bite of pizza, studying him as she did so. It was then she realized he was being sincere. “You’re serious?”

He nodded, picking at more cheese. “I’m all ears.”

She set the pizza down in the box, resting her head against the wall. After a moment she declared, “Okay, but you asked for it.”

He shrugged. “Fair enough.”

 

**Four months later**

“Hey you,” Clint greeted as he caught sight of his favorite redhead folding clothes at one of the stations in the laundry center. He leaned in and gave her cheek a kiss before continuing on to the washer.

“You’re late, hot shot.”

He poured in some detergent. “They were out of that spicy chicken stuff you like. I had to go to the one off of Browning St.”

Natasha hummed, finishing her folding and joining him at his washer. She wrapped her arms around him, letting her head rest against the broad expanse of his back. “I suppose that’s a valid excuse.”

He closed the washer and started it before turning around in her arms and wrapping his own around her. “Gotta treat my woman.”

She smiled and kissed him.

When they pulled back, Clint cleared his throat and reached for his half-empty laundry basket. “Speaking of treats,” he opened, keeping one arm tightly wrapped around her waist, “I found  _these_  when I was gathering up my dirty clothes.” He held the pair of black and red panties by his index finger, letting the lace dangle in front of Nat’s face.

She grinned wickedly. “Took you long enough. I left them in your basket last month, which you’d have known if you ever folded your clothes.”

Clint looked at them then back to her. “Think I’d rather see them on.”

“Play your cards right and you might.” She kissed him again before taking the panties from his hand.

“Gotta say, Tasha. You keep offering sacrifices like those and this laundry room phantom is going to be very pleased.”

She sauntered over to where he’d placed the bag of takeout, putting extra swing into her hips because she knew he was watching. “Oh honey,” she practically purred, “you have no idea.” She all but winked at him.

_Screw sock thieves,_ he thought. He followed her, picking up the bag of food in one hand and lacing his fingers with hers in the other. With a kiss they abandoned the laundry center and made their way up to her apartment.


	2. Truths and Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth is a matter of circumstances...

“We’re partners now, Natasha, which means you need to be honest with me and tell me the truth.”

Clint's words hung heavy in the silence that followed them. The whir of the quinjet had her acutely aware of her lack of response. But the answer wasn’t an easy one.

Truth.

There was no such thing.

Truth was a matter of circumstance; it was not the same for all people. She could give him any answer but none of them would be the “truth.” It simply didn’t exist, not in a singularity that is. Her “truth” and his “truth,” much like lies, was tailored to fulfill a need. She could lie; she was an exquisite liar. But he had a matching nack for catching lies rendering the action a moot exercise.

Truth.

There was no answer she could give that would be the truth. All truths were secretly lies dressed up to look different from each other. She was both true and lie. So was he, even if he didn’t play the gap as much.

The silence stretched on. His sniper’s patience rivaling her stubbornness.

Finally she broke it with the only answer she could give. “I don’t know what truth you want.”

He paused only for a brief moment before running his hands through his hair, sighing deeply. He sat down next to her, slowly, telegraphing the moment so as not to frighten her off.

“Let’s start with the one you believe to be the most true,” he suggested.

She stared at him for a long time, sussing out the nuances on his face, in his eyes. She liked his eyes - blue with flecks of green and gray, frighteningly honest. Taking a breath she answered with a nod then, “Okay.”

He nodded back. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, bit heavier than yesterday's story, but I hope you enjoyed this look into Nat's mental process. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read, commented, and kudos-ed!!!


	3. Dreams and Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dream is a wish your heart makes...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for brief mentions of child abuse.

Dreams were never something Natalia put much stock in. In the Red Room they had been worked to the point of exhaustion every day meaning dreams were rare. And the first time she heard “dream” used in a context outside of nightly visions was in one of the American films they were forced to watch as part of their training. A dream is a wish your heart makes when you’re fast asleep. She denied it immediately since the only thing in her head and heart at night was darkness.

After her liberation - if that was even the right word, perhaps escape was more apt - the darkness was replaced with images of the horrors she now remembered, recognized as atrocities. Sins committed by her hands now filled her nights to a point that forced her to skip rest until her body could take it no longer. It was then she dreamed of death, others and her own.

 

When he dreamed as a boy, it was of love - from a father who hit him, from a mother rendered vacant, from a brother who had abandoned him long before he actually left.

When the circus came calling, his dreams turned to fame. If there was love to be had it was surely in the excited crowds before him as he made shot after shot after shot. But love from fame, he soon learned, was fickle and hollow, and it too faded, snuffed out the night the Swordsman betrayed him and Barney followed.

His dreams turned to nightmares of death and blood as the little boy looking for love became a killer looking for coin.

 

But dreams are a wish your heart makes when you’re fast asleep and although sleep came rarely, dreams came all the same.

And eventually they came true.

 

A father in the man with the long leather coat who pulled his ass out of a gutter in Guam, put a real bow in his hands, and made him something useful.

A brother in the handler who waited by his bedside when he was injured, arranged for snacks to be packed in all his bags for each mission, and allowed him the choice to make a different call.

 

An arrow at her heart and soon she was believing in dreams for the first time.

An arrow at her heart and soon he was believing in dreams once more.

 

It would be almost a year before her nightmares stopped. And it would be almost a year before his dreams of finding love came true again. And if dreams are a wish your heart makes when you’re fast asleep, then it was nice to the know they each found themselves dreaming of each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again so much for reading! I'll answer all of your lovely comments soon, I promise.


	4. Colors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Color in everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for graphic injury and hospitalization

The first of it is red.

When the bullet rips through his shoulder, she sees the stark red of blood, the deep maroon of split muscle, the violent crimson that clouds her vision and fills her with the needed strength to finish off the attackers and go to him.

The next part is black.

The deep inky molasses of arterial blood pooling seeps into the dark kevlar of his uniform, blood being stolen from his heart with every beat. Her leather-gloved hands desperately attempt to keep the blood in. The smell of grease fills her nose as she lowers him to the oily warehouse ground. She calls it in.

After that is white.

The antiseptic walls of the hospital sear blindingly into her eyes. Sterile compresses are piled high onto his shoulder, stemming the flow, keeping in the red he has left. The starched sheets look horribly close to the pallor of his skin.  

Then come stokes of purple.

The ultraviolet vicryl thread stitches his muscles together. The patch from his uniform is scrubbed clean to give her hands something to do. There are Byzantine bruises on her side from where he shoved her aside to take that damn bullet…

And then there is yellow.

The plain catgut stitches in his skin, holding it together, will be absorbed in a few days, probably about the same time the bruises on her side will fade to amber.

Stains of iodine remind her of too much of past pain.

She sits in the chair next to his bed and begins her vigil.

Green stares back at her. The monitor showing his beating heart pulses neon blips of life. It fills her vision until sunny orange interrupts it: a paper coffee cup extended in the hand of one Phil Coulson.

She takes it gratefully, fills him in on the mission report robotically, and monitors the steady waves of her partner’s heartbeat diligently. Coulson suggests she clean up before he leaves her to her nightwatch.

It’s some uncounted, unmeasured spanse of time before he awakes. There’s pain in his heavy sighs as he struggles to come out of the anastesia. But her heart can finally resume the cadence it left behind at the sound of the gunshot.

His eyes open. And all she sees is blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a med friend help with some notes, but he didn't get back to me in time for posting. Errors are my fault...
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Travel and Missions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five Ways Clint and Nat Traveled Home and One Way They Traveled into Battle

Five Ways Clint and Nat Traveled Home and One Way They Traveled into Battle

 

1\.   Clint glanced over his shoulder to see the Widow looking straight ahead at the walls of the quinjet. She still had on the handcuffs he’d put her in, but the raised incredulous brow she’d given him told all he needed to know: she was wearing them as a mere formality.

“Almost there,” he announced, unsure what compelled him to do so. The Widow surely didn’t care. Then again, maybe she did; she was impossible to get a read on. But sparing her hadn’t been about seeing something grand or reading some small sign, some tick of body language. No, it was a gut feeling. Of course he’d need something better than that if he was going to convince Fury she was worth keeping around…

 

2\.  There was blood all over the backseat but Natasha couldn't care less. This man had given her a second chance and now he’d taken a bullet for her. That was far too much debt to let him die on her.

A swerve around a Buick sent his limp body sliding across the bench seat. “Damn it, Nat,” Clint grumbled, pain tuning his voice to a low, pinched pitch. “Slow down. You’re gonna kill both of us.”

“Sorry Barton, but I’m getting your ass to a hospital before you do something stupid like blackout or die on me.” She dodged a semi and pressed more on the gas pedal.

“Could you at least take the curves easier? Otherwise I’m gonna puke on top of bleed out.”

Through the rearview mirror she smirked at him. He sighed and pressed the compress closer to his wound. This was going to be a bumpy ride.

 

3.  His teeth were positively chattering. And as much as she hated to admit it - Russian blood and all that - she was awfully chilly herself.

“Clint,” she called, forgetting momentarily about his recent hearing loss. She tossed her own thin blanket off and stood up, reaching out a hand to carefully touch at his bicep.

He turned to face her, blanket up to his chin from where it was tucked into his bunk.

When the sleeper car attendant had told them the heat wasn’t working on the train, and that extra blankets were running low, Nat had almost turned and walked right off the train. But it was the quickest and most relaxing way out of Germany, and after the mission they’d had, driving to Spain just didn’t sound all that appealing. Especially in winter.

“You o-okay?” Clint chattered.

Nat pulled at his arm in response and directed him onto her bunk below him. She pulled off his bed’s blankets and added them to her own.

Clint had gotten the hint and made room for her on the tiny bunk. The swaying of the train caused her to be a little less than graceful and she ended up shoved against him.

“Sorry,” she said, signing the word too. They were both still learning ASL but had a decent grasp on some words.

“Don’t worry about it,” he signed back. He moved over as much as he could but she still ended up largely pressed to his side. It was uncomfortably close but so much warmer. He pulled up the blankets and almost involuntarily she cuddled in closer to him. This was a much better arrangement - shared blankets, body heat… space.

Her face felt hot and she suddenly realized her was blushing. What the hell? 

But Clint was already snoring gently and hadn’t seen her embarrassment. Good. 

It wasn’t long before his steady heartbeat lulled her to sleep.

 

4\.  It was a treasured few moments of freedom, her riding the open Iowan prairie on her Ducati. The wind and the road, lines of yellow streaking by, the pavement connecting with the rubber of her tires. But all of it was a bit overshadowed by the reason for her journey.

She pulled up the familiar dirt driveway to find Clint’s rented truck parked beside the still-in-progress house. It was project for sure, but he’d bought the fixer-upper some years back and used it as a place to unwind after difficult missions. When they’d gotten back from finishing off some offshoots of the Red Room, he’d brought her along. It was a get away, a home as much as people like them could have one.

But now he was using it as a hiding spot, a place to shut out the world and everything beyond.

He was chopping wood when she approached, moving into his peripherals in case his hearing aids were out. But he must’ve had them in because he grunted a vague greeting that lacked any of his usual self. God, how Loki had left him hollow.

“Stocking up for winter?” she tried to tease but he didn’t respond. Maybe she had more work to do that she initially thought. She pulled an envelope out of her backpack and handed it to him. “Fury sends his love.”

He took it, looked the papers inside over. His release forms, signed and officially stamped. Clint Barton was no longer a SHIELD agent. He nodded towards the house. “There’s a sat-phone inside if you need to check in.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him. “You really think you’d get to retire without me?”

He raised a brow, letting the ax in his hands rest at his feet.

“You quit. I quit.”

“Nat, don’t be redic-”

“Don’t you dare say it’s ridiculous.”

“You love this job.”

“So do you!”

“I killed friends, Natasha! Agents!”

“So did I when I was under mind control.”

He narrowed his eyes and picked up the ax, moving towards his pile of wood to chop. “That was different.”

“How? You’ve told me a million times none of those deaths were my fault. So either you don’t really believe that or you were lying to me.”

“I’d never lie to you.”

“So then how is it different?”

He was quiet for a long time. The ax handle twirled deftly in his hands as if it were a feather instead of a heavy tool. “Fine,” he grunted. “Guess I got stuff I gotta atone for.” He placed the folder on the chopping block and split it in half with the ax. “But I’m taking some vacation first.”

She reached out for him carefully, taking his hand in her hers and twining their fingers together. “Can I come too?”

He smiled, something closer to his real smile that she’d seen in ages. “Of course.”

 

5\.  “Permission to come aboard,” he asked, cheeky smile on his face.

She turned at his voice, heart leaping at the sight of him. It’d been almost two months since SHIELD fell, two months since she’d last known he was okay.

She ran to him and threw her arms around his neck, hugging him as tightly as she dared. “Took you long enough,” she teased, pulling back just enough for him to see her lips.

He tugged her in, nestling his face into her neck, breathing in her scent. “Well I had to shake some Hydra goons tailing me. That and,” he motioned to the small dingy that had been converted into a tiny house boat, “you weren’t all that easy to find.”

“That’s the point, hot shot.” She rest her head on his shoulder. “Glad you did though.”

He grinned and held her tighter.

 

+1.  Wakanda was amazing! If it wasn’t for the impending doom of the universe approaching, Clint would be tempted to spend the rest of his life there. Then again, if Thanos really was as big and bad as they said, he might just be living out the rest of his days in Wakanda anyway.

“What are you thinking about?” Tasha asked him, slipping her hand into his as they continued their perimeter check.

He shrugged. “End of the world stuff.”

She hummed but said nothing.

They walked together, scouring the area of any sign of Thanos or his posse’s arrival. After some time, Natasha took a deep breath a let out the words that had been on her tongue since that train in Germany. “I love you.”

Clint stopped in his tracks, spinning around to face her. “Wha- you do?” He shook his head. “Shit, sorry. I mean... um…” A smile then broke out over his lips, the bottom one busted and pulling at the scab. It was his smile, the perfect one for him. “I love you too.”

He leaned down to kiss her and she met him halfway. It was soft at first, but deepened as it went on. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her as close as she could possibly be. She ran her fingers through his hair, down his back, up his arms. It was perfect.

And maybe it was the end of the world, but for them, it was only beginning…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for reading, commenting, and leaving Kudos!!!


	6. Moods and Emotions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nat is not a robot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of past child abuse/neglect

“You know, a hawk can see movement from a hundred feet away.” It was a simple fact, something he’d read as a kid in  _Boy’s Life_ magazine in some doctor’s office. God knows he was in them often enough.

She didn’t turn to face him, just kept her attention honed on the pistol before her, cleaning it despite having done so only hours before. But when he sat down next to her she didn’t lash out or reject his presensence. He took that as a win.

“That’s me trying to be cool and sly. You know, let ya know I saw what happened back there without saying it.”

She began reassembling her weapon. Anyone else would take it as a sign to hurry up and leave, but Clint never knew what was good for him - or at least never subscribed to following any sense of self-preservation.

“C’mon, Nat. Talk to me, huh?”

She cocked the gun in response.

But Clint didn’t move, barely even blinked. It was her version of “it’s fine,” that lie women say when clearly everything is wrong but dealing with the issue is too big. Bobbi’s had been shoving a spoon of gelato in her mouth and throwing punches at the nearest soft thing. It had scared Clint the first few times, seeing fists flying outside of a mission or training. Some reactions never go away…

But Bobbi never came close to him when she was like that. And Nat was similar: all bark and no real bite. Well, okay, he had a dent in his kitchen counter where she’d slammed her gun down after a bunch of recruits has posted a pic of her as a robot on all the locker room doors. But Hill had seen to that issue and Clint had taken Nat to see a local school production of  _Swan Lake._  It was pretty amuture, but Natasha liked seeing the youngest ones goof off and be free in their performance with none of the rigidity and expectations, demands, of her own training.

“Elberts better watch himself,” she finally grunted out. She nodded to the gun. “I don’t take being called icy bitch lightly.”

Clint gave her a small smile. “I know.” He gently put an arm around her shoulders. “I have him for distance shooting training next. Want me to suddenly fall ill, give you a chance to use him as a target in the paintball challenge?”

Her first real smile of the day blossomed slowly over her full lips. “Yeah.” She settled closer in his arms. “Thanks.”

He kissed the top of her head. “Anytime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! You all are the best!


	7. Free Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dance with me

“Dance with me,” she whispered quickly in his ear. Their mark had moved to the dance floor with his escort and Nat had been looking for an in all evening. This was it.

“Nat, I’m not all that great at-”

“I’ll lead, Barton, just ask me to dance,” she all but hissed.

He stood up from the bar and extended his hand, asking in fluent French if she would do him the honor of having this dance.

She accepted, her character of the evening being a bubbly blonde. (Clint had commented earlier that she made a terrible blonde, although she suspected that had more to do with his recent divorce from Bobbi Morse.)

Clint led her out to the dance floor and together they struck up a waltz to the swaying tune played by a local chamber group. It took everything Nat had not to show when Clint stepped on her foot… twice.

“Sorry,” he whispered in her ear, voice full of something she could only classify as chagrin.

“Just make a box, Barton,” she answered, eyes staying on her mark. She just needed him alone for a minute. She needed to get him to cut in on their dance.

“Move closer to them,” she ordered quietly. Clint maneuvered as best as he could but Nat ultimately led them. “Spin me,” she instructed.

Clint gave her a look that said, ‘your funeral,’ and spun her out. She “accidently” bumped into the mark and began apologizing profusely. Clint joined her, taking the blame to which she graciously tried to share.

The mark, having finally caught sight of Natasha and her seemingly inept date, waved off their apologies, saying a dance with the lovely lady would be apology enough.

Clint bowed out, letting the mark take Natasha’s hand. That was all she needed. Less than a minute later the poison was administered and would take hold in twenty minutes, plenty of time to meet Clint at the rendezvous point.

They slipped out of the country unnoticed and into the quinjet SHIELD had waiting for them. And once in the air, Clint set the jet to autopilot and offered his hand to Natasha.

“What are you doing?”

“Well it’s come to my attention I’m in need of a few dance lessons. Care to facilitate?”

She looked at his hand and then back to him and his accompanying hopeful grin. How could she say no? Taking his offered hand, she led them to the back of the quinjet, snagging her phone from her pack to play some music.

Clint took her hand in his and placed his other one on her waist. She took her position and counted them off… only to find Clint was performing an elegant, excellent waltz not at all like the atrocity he’d performed that evening.

“You were faking weren’t you?”

He grinned sheepishly. “How else was I going to get you to dance with me outside of a mission?”

She frowned but it didn’t hold much heat. “Well then, it appears you’re ready to move on to a samba, maybe some tango.”

He laughed but stopped when he realized she was being serious. “Oh, uh… well, as long as you don’t mind having your feet stepped on.”

She smirked. “Don’t worry, Barton. I’ve had worse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much, everyone, for celebrating this week with me! I hope you enjoyed it as much as I have. :)


End file.
